"If you had written a paper on a topic, I would have read it. At some point, anyways. There is no excuse for such a lack. You might be reading it now--not at present, of course, at present we are conversing--but during this journey. And on the way to Orazammer, when you were traveling alone--what else were you doing at that time! You might have troubled yourself to read it then."
He folds his hands behind his head to make a secondary pillow. At least his fingers are now clean of grease, so he will not be doing anything to dirty his hair. It has grown still a little longer than when he'd first departed Kirkwall for Orazammar, something that will need to be attended to at a later date.
"In any case. I was not asking because I was holding out hope that you would have troubled yourself to read my work. I was asking because of the precarious situation in which Seheron finds itself. Half-conquered by the Qunari, who are in turned challenged by Tevinter--and then the rebel forces that challenge both, the Tal-Vashoth and the native rebels--who have retained their rich history, despite efforts to suppress and consume them--one might think of them as a sort of blueprint by which the Fex's history might be mapped. For does not history so often repeat itself?"
How irritating it is when he has some proper cause to be egotistical. The perfectly sound and therefore highly annoying reasoning of it briefly checks her as she is sat there with her back pressed to the bulkhead, swaying up and then down and then left and right while the boat is battered. The lamp wobbles above them in counter to it all, a drunk dancer at a party gone very late indeed and somehow always a beat behind the music.
Having mentally rifled through all the possible things she might say in objection and finding that none of them really suit, Wysteria at last says, "Well yes, I suppose you have something of a point. Regarding history and the matter of Seheron, I mean."
She has been busy reading and writing other things on this particular trip, thank you.
"Though really," yes being here implied, "Melus drew heavily from the work of Brother Vell, but Vell's Land of Fog can be somewhat difficult to lay hands upon. One should not fault Melus for being derivative, since his writing grants wider accessibility to works that might otherwise have been lost."
Val puts his boots against the wall again, resuming his previous pose.
"There is a copy of the Melus now in your library. You should be pleased to find it when you have taken up residence at your little house once more. That is, if it has not been stolen."
"I can't imagine why it might have been. I trust someone" who shall not be named "Is seeing to the house's security, to say nothing of Bronagh. Who I continue to have confidence in, as she hasn't yet written me to serve her resignation."
But that's hardly the point. From where she is sat in the bunk with the thin quilt drawn over her lap, Wysteria considers his boots there on the narrow cabin's wall.
"Do you suppose any other books wandered onto my shelves while I've been away?"
"Oh, most assuredly. I should say that an entirely village of books has transplanted itself quite comfortably upon your shelves. They were a most attractive territory to be so occupied, all of their fields and open plains and so on."
He swishes his feet against the wall. It is, after all, also a pleasantly open space.
"One might call it a colonization, except that there were hardly any books there to begin with. Can it be colonization, when the territory is so thoroughly empty?"
Her scoff is a miniature version of that one she utters so often in his company.
"That's hardly true. And if there was so much open space, it's only on account of having put so many of the old collection into storage what with it being generally quite poor or rotten."
(Literally, as far as the last point is concerned. A great deal of the house's library had suffered from a considerable leak at some point prior to her inheritance.)
It's only after this objection, once she has recalled that she didn't ask in order to be annoyed, that Wysteria primly tucks her knee-jerk guard away like a handkerchief into a pocket and thus resolutely continues—
"And do you recall whether much else has changed about my little house? Your things haven't invaded further rooms, have they?"
The scoff seems to come from a very high height, as if Wysteria is poised upon a mountaintop. It drifts down to Val, still upon the floor. He smiles.
"'Poor' and 'rotten' are wonderful reasons why the former residents of the shelves should have been consigned to storage crates. Perhaps they may be replaced, if matching volumes and sets might be located. That would be a worthy undertaking for-- hm, someone. Your Mister Ellis."
Whose name he has not missed hearing. All the same, he manages to pronounce it quite blithely, as if he has no care at all about the name or the person attached to the name or what they might do about assisting with restocking the former library.
"Of course Veronique is enjoying the new cellar--but she is not my things--she is herself, her own--so I think discussing her in this context would be deeply disrespectful. And why should my things have invaded your house? My workroom in the Gallows remains quite sufficient for my purposes."
"Well," she says to his boots. Having dispensed with the book and made herself more or less as comfortable sitting against the bunk's bulkhead as she is likely to be, Wysteria turns her attention to drawing her undone hair forward across her shoulder where it might be habitually combed through with fingers. It was a mistake to take it down. She's been relying on another girl among the passengers to help her braid it back up again. However, with the weather tossing everything about it seems highly unlikely to be sorted any time soon; she will have to fold the whole mess up under a felt cap until the sea stops running.
Well.
"How should I know? Apparently books are wandering in onto my shelves of their own accord. Who's to say what else might have trailed after them? Though I will admit to being surprised, Valentine. Your workroom in the Gallows is so very small."
It is now Val's turn to scoff. His scoff is not so signature as Wysteria's. One might hear it in a room of other likely scoffers and not immediately select him as its source. And certainly he exercises it rather less than Wysteria, who is so practiced at scoffing she might claim it as a title--the Scoffer--or enter into some sort of competition to prove herself the best at it, which would be rather beneath her and not likely to happen, even if such a competition did exist.
"Really! It is not so," and he drops out of his accent long enough to imitate her, "very small. It is of a perfectly adequate proportion. Could it be larger? Doubtless. Could it be smaller? One should hope not, or no real work could get done at all. But so very small is entirely false to say of it. What reason have you to hold an opinion on it in the first place?"
"No reason whatsoever. And it isn't an opinion. It is merely a fact observed from an entirely neutral position. Indeed, I only even bothered to comment on the thing because I thought that you were already been thinking it and would have agreed instantly. If I imagined you to be so pleased with the space, I would have said nothing at all. Obviously, I have no desire whatsoever to sway your opinion on any other direction. I'm quite pleased with my multitude of rooms, works in progress though they may be. Have you have had a house of your own, Valentine? It's quite liberating to do whatever you like with it, at whatever rate you choose."
His imitation of her, she decides, is quite poor. But it's almost very nearly funny that he tried.
"In any case, it's of no real consequence. I was only curious. I'm pleased to hear that I won't have to do much tidying once we've returned."
"I have my apartments in Val Royeaux. I know very well the pleasure of having such choice. I hardly need to be told. I certainly do not need to have ownership of an entire mansion to know it."
He takes his hands from behind his head so that he might fold his arms over his chest. The ship falls on the swell of the wave, pitching beneath him, and he makes a noise of disgust and sits up as the ship rises again.
"If I wanted to use a room in your little house, I would."
Her hair lays across one of her shoulders, a curtain of gold dulled by the poor light of the lantern that still swings over their heads. Val scowls, to show how very unimpressed he is.
His face floats up past the narrow bunk's edge, impressively glowering. Wysteria pointedly does not cross her arms right back at him.
"Very good. It's hardly as if I'm trying to convince you, Valentine."
So don't act as if she is, monsieur.
The point, she feels, is so well made that she might leave it there and see what he says in reply. She can imagine the shape of his rustled feathers very clearly, and there's some pleasure in seeing him so rankled that the impulse to turn the screw and simply allow him to bridle against it.
So that hardly explains why she might say so abruptly—
Val's eyes narrow. He was quite prepared to argue. This has become a tactic of hers, suddenly making an offering that might be a kindness. Like a man facing down a wild animal, he stays quite still.
"I might find a use for another room. But you hardly require my company."
Val rests his chin on the edge of the bunk. Its border has a slight lip, common to ship's accommodations, presumably designed to protect slumbering passengers from tumbling out of bed. His eyes stay narrowed as he continues to consider Wysteria, his wife, in a particular state of less-dressed, with the aforementioned tumble of her unbound and partly uncombed hair, and her shawl settled comfortably and rather matronly around her small shoulders. The ship's lantern makes interesting shadows around her. She could be the subject of a mundane painting.
Certainly this is a close association. How else would one find one's self in this particular situation?
"It could be advantageous," he says. Eventually. "Certainly I have found it so in these past weeks. It is far more convenient to merely cross a passageway to argue with you, when I have found the reason or cause to do so, rather than depart upon the ferry and walk all the way to Hightown and find you within the maze of rooms in your little mansion. And certainly my having a room--or two--within your little house would give further credence to our Arrangement."
Formal Arrangement; capitalized A. There is no need to mention the social and familiar word between them. They both know it.
"Though I should have to have my address changed for all my correspondence, if this arrangement of situation was made."
That long, studious pause prompts some urge to squirm. Happily, the boat is doing so much of that on her behalf that even if she we're to shift a little, or to self consciously rearrange the blanket across her knees, or to feel at all tempted to withdraw the question on account of him not answering it promptly enough— Well, she would hardly notice it herself. Certainly no one else could.
In any case, the whole sensation of being so aware of herself sitting there against the bulkhead, and of being looked at, and how ridiculous she must appear evaporates promptly given the proper motivation.
"Two rooms," Wysteria repeats to underline the rapid shift in scope from none rooms to that. But it's mild as far as checks go; it isn't even accompanied by a disdainful scoff.
"If you feel it necessary to have your letters and papers and other mail and so on there, then I'm relatively confident a side table could be found to stack it all on. There is, as you know, a surplus of furniture to hand on the site."
Yes, indeed. It would in fact serve the Arrangement perfectly well. But more importantly—
"In fact, that would be preferable. Then I can be certain that you will read my notes, rather than letting them molder unattended in your Gallows pigeonhole."
His huffed breath ruffles the ends of his hair. It is rather too longish to be fashionable now, and puts Val solidly in the category of a category of man inattentive to standards. But when one is beneath the earth--hundreds upon hundreds of miles, if not thousands--where there is no one of any real consequence to do any seeing, one is certainly permitted a certain amount of indifference to style. Or at least this is the argument that Val has been making while in Orazammar. Now that they are above-ground, he should likely arrange for a visit to a barber, or hack at it himself at some point along the journey. There must be a pair of scissors somewhere about the Windlass.
"They hardly molder. I see them eventually. It is that I so rarely have cause to review the contents of the little holes--things of no particular consequence are left there--do not squawk, I am not speaking of your notes, I am speaking of all the other silly little Riftwatchy notes, about silly little Riftwatchy things. Occasionally I have taken all of the contents straight to my workroom and used it as kindling. It makes for very fine kindling. I think it is the parchment that they use. Cheap stuff, it burns well, which is the kindest thing that can be said of it. In any case, yes, if two rooms and a side table from your great collection of unused and rather antiquated furnishings might be secured for me, I could see how the change to accommodation might be very," hm, he makes a flighty gesture, as if trying to stir the correct word out of the air itself, "suitable, we shall say. Not at all dissatisfying. If it is amendable to you, mademoiselle, as the lady of the house."
When Val raises his eyebrows, they are nearly hidden by the overgrowth of his hair. He really must see a barber.
Indeed, he ought to. Sitting there on the floor of the cabin, and in the general sort of state of disarray required by long travel both overland and overseas regardless of how fashionable or attentive a person might be, he is beginning to look suspiciously rakish. Between it and all the scruff on his cheek, one might almost be reminded of a particular dream had a very long time ago where he or she or cumulatively Riftwatch had believed his hair might touch his collar.
What had that dracolisk's name been?
Well, it hardly matters. She is not being reminded of it, meaning the dream or any of its contents, and so there's no point in chasing that stray thought round in circles.
"Madame," she corrects him instead. Maybe that will lower his eyebrows by the degrees necessary to make them entirely visible again. As for the rest— "Surely your study of Veronique would benefit from more frequent observation. And this way I could hardly be held responsible if she and the goat were to come to a disagreement. I have some interest in protecting myself from the liability of caring for your ant, you see, and suspect that if I were to raise the subject with my solicitor that it would cause more confusion than he can easily manage."
The Windlass rises and falls. Ruadh, with his great jowly nose face propped on one paw and the taste of chicken a passing dream on his heavy tongue, observes them from under his drooping eyelids. It would be easy to mistake what Wysteria says next as merely a natural extension of this business of liability and animals and so on that she's only just finished prattling on about; but surely not even the mabari makes that mistake, and Val is arguably more clever than the smartest of Ferelden's favorite dogs.
His eyebrows do lower to a visible point as a smile pulls at his mouth. The muscles that move these parts of the face are not connected, but these two things happen so seamlessly that it gives the illusion of connection.
Very abruptly then, Val sits back, both removing his chin from the edge of the bed and removing Wysteria from the closest scrutiny. He has to duck in order to rummage in that space beneath the bunk, where cases and chicken bones and other important items are stored. His voice is rather muffled.
"Far be it from me to cause any additional confusion to your solicitor! Mine once told me that the man appears to be quite confusable. Or perhaps he was speaking of himself. It is difficult to say, I only half listen to him. Well: to both of them, really. And I should want nothing to happen to Veronique, of course--though she is most capable of defending herself. Do you know, I think she may have some manner of stinger!"
It's good that he turns his attention elsewhere; she was beginning to feel the prickle of heat at the back of her neck, and if any color had risen beyond the edge of her collar or the shawl drawn about her, she would have been required to point out that it had nothing at all to do with anything and was merely a side effect of being liberally tossed around by the ocean. But he does and so Wysteria forgets that prickle of heat entirely. Whatever Val is shuffling around for can have nothing at all to do with her.
"Does she really? Do you suppose she may be poisonous?" with the utmost and entirely genuine interest. "I've finally managed to cultivate a selection of my fungus for Enchanter Smythe, and I'm certain she would be most grateful for other strange toxins. —Ruadh, are you sure you don't wish to be here with me?"
She pats the bunk's thin mattress encouragingly, though it appears to old mabari is quite dedicated to the security of the swaying deck as he acknowledges her with a mere wiggle of his stump tail and no more.
"There is a good chance of venom--although not all stings are venomous, it is a common phenomenon--for most stingers are quite small, and only irritating. Imagine, wasting such effort, only to be perceived as annoying! Not the desired effect at all. Though I am not sure that I would permit this Smythe a sample, if there is a sample to be had--you may know this person, but I do not, nor am I particularly interested in getting to know--"
The word ends in a grunt of effort. Something thuds against the bottom of the bunk, causing the whole thing to shake slightly. This likely will do nothing to entice Ruadh toward the mattress.
"--this person. And I would not want to cause any stress to Veronique, especially not for a stranger who could hardly appreciate her. In fact I shared this development with you only because I thought you capable of such appreciation."
Thud. She can feel the tremor through the bunk beneath her.
"I am appreciating the development. If I didn't appreciate it, I might simply remark 'Oh, how interesting' and be done with it. As for Enchanter Smythe, I have every confidence that she would also find Veronique perfectly interesting. She's a very thoughtful woman, and it would do you no harm to—"
Wait, no. She knows a better way to say this, and falls to rearranging the quilt on her lap while she does.
"—Enchanter Smythe is an accomplished alchemist. I would think you two might have much to talk about given your enthusiasm for the subject."
Val pulls himself from beneath the bed. His eyes are narrowed, again, with scrutiny and suspicion.
"I am known to be passionate on the subject, yes. When did Smythe join with Riftwatch? I do not know this name." Which is probably of little surprise, considering the small regard Val has historically had for his fellow members. He ducks back under the bed again and resumes his work.
"I suppose if she has such an interest, we might be able to make some manner of an exchange. Or rather, hold some manner of an exchange--which would not be unpleasant, for it is always difficult to find partners with which worthwhile conversations might be held--"
There is a little strain again on the last word as Val gives a great tug to something that is still hidden beneath the bed. The corner of another case emerges--narrower, cruder, built of simple wood.
If she leans forward to get a look at that crate's edge, then it's only by a very slight degree. And truly, who's to say for certain whether even that very slight degree is real or not? Perhaps it's merely a trick or the swinging lantern above them, or the natural effect of the ship rising and falling like a cork in a shaken washbasin.
Who can say!
"I rather enjoy talking to all sorts of people, myself. Whether they are entirely what you might consider worthwhile or otherwise. I find doing so makes it generally more likely to find these particular individuals with whom proper conversations can be held. Enchanter Smythe has been with Riftwatch for some time now, and I would estimate her to be highly accomplished in her field.
"Come now, you must recall her. She is the remarkably attractive woman. The one with the very fine cheekbones, and the full mouth. and the lovely ivory colored hair. She and the Provost are lovers."
—Seems, for some reason, like a very important follow up fact to the ones which preceded it.
Val plants his elbow on the corner of the case that is now showing as a result of all his effort. He puts his chin in his hand, head cocked slightly as he considers this new piece of information--and the others that preceded it, of course.
"I cannot say I recall her. But I do not spend a great deal of time staring into the faces of people and weighing their particular attractiveness. Ivory hair I might particularly recall, as an anomaly--unless she is quite old, which might explain the cheekbones--" He pulls one of his own cheeks in as demonstration. "Skeletal. When did they become lovers? I should think the Provost too busy provosting."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"If you had written a paper on a topic, I would have read it. At some point, anyways. There is no excuse for such a lack. You might be reading it now--not at present, of course, at present we are conversing--but during this journey. And on the way to Orazammer, when you were traveling alone--what else were you doing at that time! You might have troubled yourself to read it then."
He folds his hands behind his head to make a secondary pillow. At least his fingers are now clean of grease, so he will not be doing anything to dirty his hair. It has grown still a little longer than when he'd first departed Kirkwall for Orazammar, something that will need to be attended to at a later date.
"In any case. I was not asking because I was holding out hope that you would have troubled yourself to read my work. I was asking because of the precarious situation in which Seheron finds itself. Half-conquered by the Qunari, who are in turned challenged by Tevinter--and then the rebel forces that challenge both, the Tal-Vashoth and the native rebels--who have retained their rich history, despite efforts to suppress and consume them--one might think of them as a sort of blueprint by which the Fex's history might be mapped. For does not history so often repeat itself?"
no subject
Having mentally rifled through all the possible things she might say in objection and finding that none of them really suit, Wysteria at last says, "Well yes, I suppose you have something of a point. Regarding history and the matter of Seheron, I mean."
She has been busy reading and writing other things on this particular trip, thank you.
"Melus, you said?"
no subject
Val puts his boots against the wall again, resuming his previous pose.
"There is a copy of the Melus now in your library. You should be pleased to find it when you have taken up residence at your little house once more. That is, if it has not been stolen."
no subject
But that's hardly the point. From where she is sat in the bunk with the thin quilt drawn over her lap, Wysteria considers his boots there on the narrow cabin's wall.
"Do you suppose any other books wandered onto my shelves while I've been away?"
no subject
He swishes his feet against the wall. It is, after all, also a pleasantly open space.
"One might call it a colonization, except that there were hardly any books there to begin with. Can it be colonization, when the territory is so thoroughly empty?"
no subject
"That's hardly true. And if there was so much open space, it's only on account of having put so many of the old collection into storage what with it being generally quite poor or rotten."
(Literally, as far as the last point is concerned. A great deal of the house's library had suffered from a considerable leak at some point prior to her inheritance.)
It's only after this objection, once she has recalled that she didn't ask in order to be annoyed, that Wysteria primly tucks her knee-jerk guard away like a handkerchief into a pocket and thus resolutely continues—
"And do you recall whether much else has changed about my little house? Your things haven't invaded further rooms, have they?"
no subject
"'Poor' and 'rotten' are wonderful reasons why the former residents of the shelves should have been consigned to storage crates. Perhaps they may be replaced, if matching volumes and sets might be located. That would be a worthy undertaking for-- hm, someone. Your Mister Ellis."
Whose name he has not missed hearing. All the same, he manages to pronounce it quite blithely, as if he has no care at all about the name or the person attached to the name or what they might do about assisting with restocking the former library.
"Of course Veronique is enjoying the new cellar--but she is not my things--she is herself, her own--so I think discussing her in this context would be deeply disrespectful. And why should my things have invaded your house? My workroom in the Gallows remains quite sufficient for my purposes."
no subject
"Well," she says to his boots. Having dispensed with the book and made herself more or less as comfortable sitting against the bunk's bulkhead as she is likely to be, Wysteria turns her attention to drawing her undone hair forward across her shoulder where it might be habitually combed through with fingers. It was a mistake to take it down. She's been relying on another girl among the passengers to help her braid it back up again. However, with the weather tossing everything about it seems highly unlikely to be sorted any time soon; she will have to fold the whole mess up under a felt cap until the sea stops running.
Well.
"How should I know? Apparently books are wandering in onto my shelves of their own accord. Who's to say what else might have trailed after them? Though I will admit to being surprised, Valentine. Your workroom in the Gallows is so very small."
no subject
"Really! It is not so," and he drops out of his accent long enough to imitate her, "very small. It is of a perfectly adequate proportion. Could it be larger? Doubtless. Could it be smaller? One should hope not, or no real work could get done at all. But so very small is entirely false to say of it. What reason have you to hold an opinion on it in the first place?"
no subject
His imitation of her, she decides, is quite poor. But it's almost very nearly funny that he tried.
"In any case, it's of no real consequence. I was only curious. I'm pleased to hear that I won't have to do much tidying once we've returned."
no subject
"I have my apartments in Val Royeaux. I know very well the pleasure of having such choice. I hardly need to be told. I certainly do not need to have ownership of an entire mansion to know it."
He takes his hands from behind his head so that he might fold his arms over his chest. The ship falls on the swell of the wave, pitching beneath him, and he makes a noise of disgust and sits up as the ship rises again.
"If I wanted to use a room in your little house, I would."
Her hair lays across one of her shoulders, a curtain of gold dulled by the poor light of the lantern that still swings over their heads. Val scowls, to show how very unimpressed he is.
no subject
"Very good. It's hardly as if I'm trying to convince you, Valentine."
So don't act as if she is, monsieur.
The point, she feels, is so well made that she might leave it there and see what he says in reply. She can imagine the shape of his rustled feathers very clearly, and there's some pleasure in seeing him so rankled that the impulse to turn the screw and simply allow him to bridle against it.
So that hardly explains why she might say so abruptly—
"Would you? Like to use one of my rooms."
no subject
"I might find a use for another room. But you hardly require my company."
no subject
She has such a wealth of friends and companions, both to hand and easily addressed through written correspondence.
Sat there on the narrow bunk, Wysteria gathers her knit shawl about her.
"I'm asking if you should like to continue this close association that we've been made familiar with these past weeks."
no subject
Certainly this is a close association. How else would one find one's self in this particular situation?
"It could be advantageous," he says. Eventually. "Certainly I have found it so in these past weeks. It is far more convenient to merely cross a passageway to argue with you, when I have found the reason or cause to do so, rather than depart upon the ferry and walk all the way to Hightown and find you within the maze of rooms in your little mansion. And certainly my having a room--or two--within your little house would give further credence to our Arrangement."
Formal Arrangement; capitalized A. There is no need to mention the social and familiar word between them. They both know it.
"Though I should have to have my address changed for all my correspondence, if this arrangement of situation was made."
no subject
In any case, the whole sensation of being so aware of herself sitting there against the bulkhead, and of being looked at, and how ridiculous she must appear evaporates promptly given the proper motivation.
"Two rooms," Wysteria repeats to underline the rapid shift in scope from none rooms to that. But it's mild as far as checks go; it isn't even accompanied by a disdainful scoff.
"If you feel it necessary to have your letters and papers and other mail and so on there, then I'm relatively confident a side table could be found to stack it all on. There is, as you know, a surplus of furniture to hand on the site."
Yes, indeed. It would in fact serve the Arrangement perfectly well. But more importantly—
"In fact, that would be preferable. Then I can be certain that you will read my notes, rather than letting them molder unattended in your Gallows pigeonhole."
no subject
"They hardly molder. I see them eventually. It is that I so rarely have cause to review the contents of the little holes--things of no particular consequence are left there--do not squawk, I am not speaking of your notes, I am speaking of all the other silly little Riftwatchy notes, about silly little Riftwatchy things. Occasionally I have taken all of the contents straight to my workroom and used it as kindling. It makes for very fine kindling. I think it is the parchment that they use. Cheap stuff, it burns well, which is the kindest thing that can be said of it. In any case, yes, if two rooms and a side table from your great collection of unused and rather antiquated furnishings might be secured for me, I could see how the change to accommodation might be very," hm, he makes a flighty gesture, as if trying to stir the correct word out of the air itself, "suitable, we shall say. Not at all dissatisfying. If it is amendable to you, mademoiselle, as the lady of the house."
When Val raises his eyebrows, they are nearly hidden by the overgrowth of his hair. He really must see a barber.
"Is it, mademoiselle? Amendable?"
no subject
What had that dracolisk's name been?
Well, it hardly matters. She is not being reminded of it, meaning the dream or any of its contents, and so there's no point in chasing that stray thought round in circles.
"Madame," she corrects him instead. Maybe that will lower his eyebrows by the degrees necessary to make them entirely visible again. As for the rest— "Surely your study of Veronique would benefit from more frequent observation. And this way I could hardly be held responsible if she and the goat were to come to a disagreement. I have some interest in protecting myself from the liability of caring for your ant, you see, and suspect that if I were to raise the subject with my solicitor that it would cause more confusion than he can easily manage."
The Windlass rises and falls. Ruadh, with his great jowly nose face propped on one paw and the taste of chicken a passing dream on his heavy tongue, observes them from under his drooping eyelids. It would be easy to mistake what Wysteria says next as merely a natural extension of this business of liability and animals and so on that she's only just finished prattling on about; but surely not even the mabari makes that mistake, and Val is arguably more clever than the smartest of Ferelden's favorite dogs.
"Yes, I suppose it is."
no subject
His eyebrows do lower to a visible point as a smile pulls at his mouth. The muscles that move these parts of the face are not connected, but these two things happen so seamlessly that it gives the illusion of connection.
Very abruptly then, Val sits back, both removing his chin from the edge of the bed and removing Wysteria from the closest scrutiny. He has to duck in order to rummage in that space beneath the bunk, where cases and chicken bones and other important items are stored. His voice is rather muffled.
"Far be it from me to cause any additional confusion to your solicitor! Mine once told me that the man appears to be quite confusable. Or perhaps he was speaking of himself. It is difficult to say, I only half listen to him. Well: to both of them, really. And I should want nothing to happen to Veronique, of course--though she is most capable of defending herself. Do you know, I think she may have some manner of stinger!"
no subject
"Does she really? Do you suppose she may be poisonous?" with the utmost and entirely genuine interest. "I've finally managed to cultivate a selection of my fungus for Enchanter Smythe, and I'm certain she would be most grateful for other strange toxins. —Ruadh, are you sure you don't wish to be here with me?"
She pats the bunk's thin mattress encouragingly, though it appears to old mabari is quite dedicated to the security of the swaying deck as he acknowledges her with a mere wiggle of his stump tail and no more.
no subject
The word ends in a grunt of effort. Something thuds against the bottom of the bunk, causing the whole thing to shake slightly. This likely will do nothing to entice Ruadh toward the mattress.
"--this person. And I would not want to cause any stress to Veronique, especially not for a stranger who could hardly appreciate her. In fact I shared this development with you only because I thought you capable of such appreciation."
no subject
"I am appreciating the development. If I didn't appreciate it, I might simply remark 'Oh, how interesting' and be done with it. As for Enchanter Smythe, I have every confidence that she would also find Veronique perfectly interesting. She's a very thoughtful woman, and it would do you no harm to—"
Wait, no. She knows a better way to say this, and falls to rearranging the quilt on her lap while she does.
"—Enchanter Smythe is an accomplished alchemist. I would think you two might have much to talk about given your enthusiasm for the subject."
no subject
"I am known to be passionate on the subject, yes. When did Smythe join with Riftwatch? I do not know this name." Which is probably of little surprise, considering the small regard Val has historically had for his fellow members. He ducks back under the bed again and resumes his work.
"I suppose if she has such an interest, we might be able to make some manner of an exchange. Or rather, hold some manner of an exchange--which would not be unpleasant, for it is always difficult to find partners with which worthwhile conversations might be held--"
There is a little strain again on the last word as Val gives a great tug to something that is still hidden beneath the bed. The corner of another case emerges--narrower, cruder, built of simple wood.
"Surely you can agree with this, ma puce."
no subject
Who can say!
"I rather enjoy talking to all sorts of people, myself. Whether they are entirely what you might consider worthwhile or otherwise. I find doing so makes it generally more likely to find these particular individuals with whom proper conversations can be held. Enchanter Smythe has been with Riftwatch for some time now, and I would estimate her to be highly accomplished in her field.
"Come now, you must recall her. She is the remarkably attractive woman. The one with the very fine cheekbones, and the full mouth. and the lovely ivory colored hair. She and the Provost are lovers."
—Seems, for some reason, like a very important follow up fact to the ones which preceded it.
no subject
Val plants his elbow on the corner of the case that is now showing as a result of all his effort. He puts his chin in his hand, head cocked slightly as he considers this new piece of information--and the others that preceded it, of course.
"I cannot say I recall her. But I do not spend a great deal of time staring into the faces of people and weighing their particular attractiveness. Ivory hair I might particularly recall, as an anomaly--unless she is quite old, which might explain the cheekbones--" He pulls one of his own cheeks in as demonstration. "Skeletal. When did they become lovers? I should think the Provost too busy provosting."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
obscures date stamp with confetti (but drop if this is 2old)
wow get a load of all this confetti
🎉🎉🎉
(no subject)